Cold Moon
by Asano
Summary: Preepisode tag to Tooth & Claw. Spoilers, in a way. Just a little scene between Sir Robert and Isobel, because they wouldn't get out of my head.


He's stolen all the blankets again. She feels so cold, her feet are practically numb. Struggling awake, she opens her eyes to the darkened old bedroom and notices that the window's been left unlatched. That new maid again. Pretty young thing, and sweet as sugar, but not all that bright.

Isobel rises from the bed gently, so as not to wake her blanket-thieving husband. A warm smile spreads across her face as she looks back at him, strong, broad chest rising and falling beneath his nightshirt. Even after two years of marriage he still sometimes made her breath catch in her throat; made her heart swell to five times its normal size.

She'd been married for money, there was no doubt about that. Isobel had never been a silly, romantic girl like her friends back in Edinburgh. Those silly little things that came round for tea and sat giggling in the garden over which handsome boy had asked them for a second dance at So-and-So's last ball, or who had held their hand gently while trying to teach them croquet.

Isobel had never held any illusions about marriage. Her own parents shared a comfortable friendship, nothing more, and that was the best she expected from her own matrimony. Convenience, perhaps companionship, never love.

Even when she'd first met Sir Robert, she still hadn't expected more. She'd known almost instantly that he was the man she would marry. They just fit each others lives perfectly, there was no reason not to be wed.

Yet, as pleased as the suitable match made her and her family, she hadn't felt anything more than a simple contentment. Not even when she stood at the alter, beside him. He'd kept such a calm exterior throughout their courtship, acting so gentle and timid with her. She'd never expected the emotions that boiled inside him; never expected to be the object of such a fiery love.

It wasn't until the wedding night that he'd shown her what true passion could do.

Her face feels warm even now, remembering that night. She'd been a bit scared, to be honest, but even in the highest peaks of his desire, he'd been so careful with her, as if he were afraid she'd break into pieces under the weight of his love.

Isobel moves softly to the window, intending to close it, but she stands there for a moment, looking out at the softly moonlight moor. She preferred this place to Edinburgh society now, for during the Season she was so busy, so called upon that she hardly got to see her husband during the day. By night they'd fall into bed, too exhausted by wine-laden dinner parties or balls that lasted into the small hours to do anything other than simply hold each other as they fell asleep.

Up here, though, he is hers. All hers. And she is so gratefully his.

A small breeze stirs her hair. She's no longer cold, now that her blood is up a bit. Her face grows warmer at that thought. It was almost ironic in a way. Isobel had always been the prim and proper Christian girl, covering herself properly even when she slept.

It had taken marriage to turn her into a wild heathen.

Oh, she still behaved properly enough in Society. Still smiled and was demure, and curtseyed with all due deference. She discussed fashions with the ladies while her husband debated politics with the gentlemen. Isobel would smile brightly and examine a new fashion of hat while desperately trying to ignore the way Sir Robert's lips curling around a cigar made a slow, warm ache unravel in her stomach and spread downwards.

Up here, she didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to wait. She'd give him a look, retire to her chamber, send the maids away, and he would follow in a few minutes. They would stand across the room, just looking at each other, grinning from ear to ear until one of them finally moved, finally began frantically pulling at stiff garments until warm flesh was meeting warm flesh and they were gasping for breath.

The breeze picks up, and Isobel smiles at the pleasant coolness against her hot skin. It presses her thin nightgown against her firm figure and pushes her loose hair from her shoulders. Wild heathen woman, indeed, she chuckles inwardly.

The night is clear enough for the Highlands, but the weather could change at any moment as it was apt to do. As clouds shift, Isobel catches sight of the moon. Even when it's not completely full it still dominates the sky with silver radiance, and she smiles in wonder at it.

On nights like this, it's easy to understand how some of the locals are still so superstitious. Flora, that new silly maid, had been caught setting a saucer of milk out the back garden. For the faeries, she'd said. Silly girl.

Even Robert's father had been a bit silly in his old age, swapping ghost stories with Prince Albert. He'd even had mistletoe transplanted into the garden from down south, to guard against evil forces, or so he'd said. After his funeral, Robert had offered to have them removed, but she'd told him she thought them quite charming. He'd smiled at her in such a way…

Suddenly, the wind seemed to shift directions, and Isobel feels cold again. She lifts a hand to the window latch, intending to shut it, but something keeps her from moving. The moon seems larger now than it had a few moments ago, seeming to hold her in place, staring into her as she stares into it.

The coldness spreads through her body, and she feels – she knows – with a certain sort of absoluteness, that something terrible is coming. Closing her eyes for a moment, she waits for the strange feeling to pass, but instead it only intensifies and she finds herself picturing, for some unidentifiable reason, a pair of large, chilling black eyes that sear her to her very soul.

"Isobel?"

Her eyes snap open as Robert's voice shatters the spell. She shakes her head to clear it. Must've been the port she'd had at dinner; she so very rarely drinks any alcohol. And now she was becoming as superstitious and silly as the locals.

Isobel looks over her shoulder and smiles. Robert's face peers sleepily at her from beneath the pile of blankets he's accumulated. "Come back to bed, love," he says, his voice husky from sleep.

"I am, just let me close the window. The maid forgot to latch it, and it got a bit cold in here."

He yawns. "Hadn't noticed, really."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" She laughs softly, pointing to the tangle of blankets as she climbs back onto the bed.

Robert smiles back and pulles her down on top of him. As she kisses him, Isobel again feels that cold feeling of dread spread through her heart, and she pulls the blankets off him, to be closer to his warmth.

His hands are beneath her nightgown now, spreading fire where they touch her bare skin. She presses the length of her body into his and feels him respond, and she slides her own hand beneath his nightshirt, pressing it against his chest as though she can pull his warmth into her.

Soon, their bodies are as close together as they can possibly achieve, and as they move together in unison towards perfect harmony, Isobel pretends she can no longer feel the cold. She presses her hips into her husband's with more force than he's used to and he groans and his grip tightens against her waist, one thumb dragging across the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

Isobel calls his name out, desperately clutching him, her back arching uncontrollably as she loses her senses in that delicious wave of ecstasy he makes her feel. When she opens her eyes again, she's looking into his, and he's lost in that same ocean of sensation. Her heart swells and she captures his mouth with her own, sharing their breath, keeping him clost to her for as long as she can.

She feels she will lose him soon.


End file.
